


A Spring Cold

by liptonrm



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Hobbits, Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-12
Updated: 2009-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-04 09:20:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liptonrm/pseuds/liptonrm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo gets sick again, and there's only one person dedicated enough to take care of him. A humorous bit of birthday fun for <a href="http://shirebound.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://shirebound.livejournal.com/"><b>shirebound</b></a></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Spring Cold

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired both by your wonderful work as well as that hilarious story [](http://abby-normal.livejournal.com/profile)[**abby_normal**](http://abby-normal.livejournal.com/) wrote for you yesterday. Everything is meant in good hearted fun, as I'm sure you'll observe;-).

"I can't believe he's ill again," Merry said peevishly, pushing his wet hand through his disheveled curls. Merry looked rather a mess, with his shirt-sleeves rolled up, dark circles under his eyes and there appeared to be a rather virulent green stain splattered across the front of his breeches in a most uncomfortable area.

Not that his colleague and cousin looked any better. "Why do we always have to take care of him when he's like this," Pippin whined, his eyes red and bloodshot from a night spent standing vigil by the sickbed. "And if he'd only make up his fecking mind! If I have to run and get one more blanket that'll only end up in a heap on the floor I'll go stark, raving mad. Just watch me," he declared, the look in his eye indicating that the descent to madness wouldn't be a very long fall, in the least.

"Oh, my back hurts so much," Merry said, imitating an ill Frodo by raising his voice an octave and flapping his hand around limply. "Merry, could you rub it for me, that would feel ever so nice."

"Oh, I'm so hungry, I haven't eaten a thing all day," Pippin imitated savagely, a strange half-mocking, half-feral look in his eyes. "Pippin, do be a dear and run and see if Sam has anymore of that wonderful mushroom soup left." He growled, ruining the effect of the imitation and making Merry feel as if he'd just leapt five feet into the air. "Then, of course, it was too cold to eat so I had to warm it by the fire and then it was too hot and then he dumped it all over your breeches." That memory made him grin a little, lessening the bloodthirsty light in his eyes. "I'd never heard anyone scream quite like that before, Mer. That was amazing. Though, of course, I never have figured out how Sam's soup made such a horrid stain."

Merry looked down forlornly at the wreck that was his new breeches. He should have known better than to wear anything new to Bag End in the winter, the fact that it was now spring and the birds were finally beginning to chirp in the garden, notwithstanding. When the Master of Bag End said it was still winter and had the cold to prove it, then winter it was.

"'Twasn't just the soup," Merry complained bitterly. "While you were napping Frodo managed to spill some of that awful tonic on me as well. I'm not quite sure how it happened, but somehow the combination of the two left me with this." Merry swiped dispiritedly at the splotch, suddenly grateful that there weren't any lasses around who might come to the wrong conclusions.

"I told you we should have gone to Fatty's," Pippin sighed. "It's too late now, Sam'll never let us live it down if we hare off."

Both cousins sighed hopelessly and turned to stare into the kitchen fire, both contemplating a future filled with sick, tyrannical hobbits and no hope of escape. They both started as a figure came tearing in from the hallway, slamming the door closed and leaning up against it with a look of abject horror on his face.

"Sam, what is it?" Merry cried, leaping up "Is something wrong with Frodo?"

"Should I run for the healer?" Pippin asked, concerned, already pulling on his jacket.

"No, it's nothin' of the sort," Sam stuttered out, his face as pale as if he'd just seen a ghost. "It's, it's…" He trailed off, unsure of what to say.

"Speak, Sam," Merry demanded. "If there is anything wrong with Frodo we must know."

"It's only, he," Sam gulped, terrified. "He wants me to give him a bath," he finished with a squeak. The three shared a terrified look at the very prospect. They stood there, frozen, unsure of what course of action they should take.

"Green Dragon, now," Pippin gasped out. Before anyone could blink all three hobbits had fled through the kitchen door, out of Bag End and down the Hill. If hobbits had any conception of these things, they would have realized that the dull boom they left in their wake was not an approaching thunderstorm, but rather the sound of the sound barrier being broken.

Optional Postscript:

The halls of Bag End were silent as their master groggily made his way through them. He could not begin to imagine where Sam had gotten himself off to, he had been waiting in his room for the longest time for the lad to return with news of a tub full of wonderful, steaming water. Frodo was sure that was just the thing to clear out the stuffiness in his head and allow him to think clearly once again.

Frodo hated being so sick. He would give anything to be able to enjoy just one of his cousins' visits, but it seemed every time they arrived they brought sickness in their wake. He was not overly fond of this whole situation and was absolutely positive that he would spend the next week sniffling and sneezing and not able to get a lick of work done. Added to all of that, he was beginning to worry that something dreadful had overcome his dear friends, for why else was he unable to locate them?

"Sam… Merry… Pippin…" he called out faintly, trying to muster the lucidity to figure out where they could have gotten themselves off to. Of all the times to disappear this was certainly the worst. Most ungrateful.

"You poor dear," said a soft, female voice from behind him. Frodo turned cautiously, not sure whether the voice was that of an intruder or a delirium. "I can't believe those ingrates would leave you here so alone, so helpless." The woman smiled softly at him and Frodo felt as if he would trust her with anything. "Come with me, my dear, and I'll see you properly taken care of."

"How lovely," Frodo mumbled as she wrapped him in warm blankets and softly began to stroke his hair. "Who are you? Are you real?"

The woman chuckled softly and as Frodo drifted off to sleep he thought he could hear, "I'm Janet, and I'll be taking care of you from now on."

**Author's Note:**

> I admit it, I shamelessly stole an idea you used in a ficlet you wrote for febobe, but I just couldn't end the story without some Frodo!comfort, I'm not that heartless;-). *hugs* and Happy Birthday once again!


End file.
